I Can't Cook!
by TwistedAngel08
Summary: France woke up to the smell of cooking, which was a bad thing. He rose in a panic, hurrying out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, ignoring the fact that he was clad in nothing but red silk boxers. In the kitchen, he found his boyfriend, Britain, in front of the stove, wearing his British flag boxers and a fluffy pink apron that France had gotten for him. Warnings: M/M,fluff,R&R!


**A/N Sooooo... Yeaaaaah... I thoroughly enjoyed writing this, it was so fun! This is for my very best friend, who is insane, cute as a button, possibly the spawn of Satan himself, and absolutely the most perfect friend for me! She asked me to write her some fluffy FrUk and this is what happened. I'm sorry, Dragonball Z, Transformers, and Harry Potter, but this is my favorite fic that I've written so far! Who wants to do the disclaimer?**

**France: I will! TwistedAngel does not own Hetalia, if she did, it would follow a parallel history in which all the countries love each other and have sex in the oddest of places.**

******Warnings: Male/Male sex. You don't like it? I don't give, cause I didn't write it for you and you don't have to read it. Lots of fluff, a lot more than I'm used to writing. But, it's what my friend asked for, so enjoy! R&R!**

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France woke up to the smell of cooking, which was a bad thing. He rose in a panic, hurrying out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, ignoring the fact that he was clad in nothing but red silk boxers. In the kitchen, he found his boyfriend, Britain, in front of the stove, wearing his British flag boxers and a fluffy pink apron that France had gotten for him. Now that he thought about it, the wine-loving country realized the apron had been a bad idea. He had meant it to be symbolic, and maybe for a bit of role-playing, but it seemed that Britain had taken it as encouragement. France looked around the kitchen. _Oh mon Dieu,_ he thought. The kitchen was littered with utensils, ingredients, and dirty dishes. Stacks of dirty dishes that emulated the Leaning Tower of Pisa blocked the cupboards. His eyes were drawn to the rubbish bin, which had been piled high with failed attempts at what seemed like assorted breakfast dishes. Then he looked back at his lover, whose shoulders shook slightly from quiet sobs as the Brit tried to cook what smelled like eggs. "Amoureux? Are you okay?" France hesitantly asked. Britain whipped around, his eyes red and puffy and his cheeks shiny from tears.

"O-oh, hello, France. I was just making breakfast," he sniffed, Wiping his nose with a paper towel. When France gave him a worried look, he continued, saying, "Don't worry, I'll call you when it's edible- er, done." Reliazing what he said, Britain burst into loud sobs, forsaking the eggs in favor of falling to the floor in humility.

"Amoureux!" France said, rushing to his love's side. He tried to pull the other man into an embrace, but Britain pushed him away. "Amoureux, it's okay," France whispered lovingly. "You don't have to cook, I'll just have some of the cannoli that Italy made for us." This was meant to comfort the crying Britain, but it only seemed to upset him even more.

"Oh fine! Go on, eat that fruit-cake's food! Remind me that I fail as a partner because I'm so bad at cooking that you have to beg for food from someone else!" he exploded. "Why don't you just sleep with Italy too, since you seem to like everything about him more than me!" Britain cried, curling into a ball.

"No, I couldn't do that!" France protested. When Britain quieted and looked up at him, he smiled and said, "Germany would kill me if I did that." At this, the Brit started to cry again, even louder than before.

"So that damn potato-muncher is the only thing stopping you from banging Italy?!" he sobbed. France smacked his forehead.

"Nonono, Amoureux, of course not. It's more than that," he said. Wrapping his arms around the crying man he said, "After all, why would I want him when I've got you? You're all I need, whether you can cook or not." Britain sniffed, hiccuping from crying so hard and so long.

"D-do you mean it? Really?" he asked, hope permeating his voice. France nodded, squeezing his lover slightly. Then, he stood, picking Britain up bridal style.

"Would you like me to prove it?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows. Britain giggled and sniffed, nodding. Forgetting all about the eggs on the stove, France carried his lover to their bedroom, gently settings he smaller man on the bed. Crawling over him, France lavished every inch of Britain's bare skin with chaste kisses, saving his lips for last. The Brit whimpered quietly as France claimed his lips in a passionate kiss, sucking on his bottom lip. France knew exactly what drove Britain crazy, and he was determined to make his sad little lover feel _all_ better. Sneakily, France undid the knots of the apron straps around Britain's neck, sliding down the offending article of clothing to reveal the pale bare chest underneath. He kissed a dusty-rose colored bud, drawing a moan from the man he loved. It was times like this that France couldn't believe his luck. Here he was, with an amazing person for a boyfriend. Sure, he couldn't cook to save his life, and he cried from time to time when in the privacy of their home, but still, France loved Britain with all of his heart. He nipped lightly at the the nipple between his lips, unable to hold back his signature laugh when Britain whimpered again. He sucked and bit the bud until it was perk and hard as a rock, then went to the other nipple to give it the same treatment. Britain slowly forgot the reason he was crying, and fidgeted under his boyfriend's torture.

"Do you believe me yet, Arthur?" France whispered, forsaking the nipple in favor of kissing a trail down the Brit's chest.

"N-not quite yet," Britain said, hiccuping. "I think I need a bit more persuasion." He shivered at the brush of air that rushed across his bare skin when France laughed.

"I can do that," the Frenchman said, dipping his tongue down Britain's navel. He only felt comfortable doing this because the Brit was almost OCD when it came to showers. He knew from sharing so many of them to cut down on the water bill. He untied the apron straps around Britain's waist, throwing them in some corner of the room. Sliding the boxers down just enough to reveal his lover's slim hips, France sucked on the newly discovered skin, nipping a little to make the Brit gasp. After a minute of this, France pulled back to admire his handiwork, sure that the red mark would eventually turn purple and mark Britain his in a way that would only be seen by him. That sent a little zing to his groin, and made him hasten in his quest. Britain whined at being forgotten, so France teasingly fingered the hem of his boxers. "What is it, Arthur? What do you need?" he said. Britain whined again, having completely forgotten about his cooking mishap.

"Francis, you slimy git, quit teasing me!" he snapped. France chuckled, pulling the boxers off and throwing them to join the apron. Britain filched at the cold breeze on his half erect cock. France bent back down, pressing open-mouthed kisses on the insides of his lover's thighs, deliberately not touching what Britain wanted touched. He continued this until Britain shifted, putting his ever hardening member directly in the line of fire of a kiss. He moaned loudly at the contact, and France loved the noise too much to not give in to his love's demands. With another chuckle, he swallowed the Brit whole, making the man cry out and buck. The Frenchman's head bobbed up and down as he pleasured his boyfriend, drawing out the most delicious noises from Britain. Eventually, France had to place his hands on Britain's hips to keep him from bucking, earning a whine. He continued sucking off his boyfriend, bring the other man so close to the edge that the Brit could almost taste it- then he pulled away. "Francis, I will murder you in your sleep, you damn frog!" Britain cried out in frustration. France smiled.

"I wouldn't want you to finish playing before the game has even started, Amoureux," he crooned, getting off the bed. When Britain looked at his boyfriend, the Frenchman had just divested himself of his boxers, and his hard on stood at attention, tall and proud. He moaned at the sight, licking his lips. _Oh, that's right, I'm in a relationship with a sex god,_ the Brit thought. France opened a drawer on their bedside table, pulling lube out and raising an eyebrow in seeing that it wasn't as full as he remembered. Britain chuckled nervously.

"I was feeling lonely when you went on that business trip," he said, shrugging. France laughed, his normal, genuine laugh instead of the creepy pedo-laugh, making his boyfriend's heart flutter. Then, with a serious look, France said, "Arthur, I love you, you know that, right?" Britain nodded, smiling back.

"I love you too, git," he said. He watched with anticipation as France covered his fingers with lube, then slowly pushed his pointer finger into the Brit's quivering hole. "Oh God, Francis," Britain exclaimed, arching slightly. France smirked as he pumped the finger in and out, curling it sometimes. Then, he added a second finger, and increased his speed. The other man grunted and moaned, unable to decide between pulling away from the pain or bucking down onto the pleasure. France scissored his fingers, savoring each noise his lover made. Eventually, a third finger was added, and Britain was a mess, rocking to fuck himself on his boyfriend's fingers. "Damn it all, Francis, do it already," he puffed, his skin feverish. France nodded, crawling back onto the bed and positioning himself at Britain's entrance.

"Are you ready, Amoureux?" he whispered lovingly. The other man nodded fervently, wriggling in anticipation. With that, France slowly pushed in, resisting the urge to plow into that tight, silky heat. Britain grunted, forcing himself to relax. France wasn't even all the way in yet, but he felt so full! Now he knew why that trivia tv show had made him laugh with the question, 'Countries larger than France?' Despite the burn from having something so large in him, Britain moaned, rocking down to force France in a little faster.

"Oh Dieu! Arthur you're so tight," the taller county said through clenched teeth. He slid in that final inch and then stopped, panting. It took a lot of self control to keep still, but he didn't want to hurt Britain, who was covering his face with his arms. The smaller man whined, half in discomfort, half in pleasure. He waited to adjust for a minute or two, but then became impatient, and bucked sooner then he usually would. The pain that threaded through the pleasure made him moan. "Arthur, are you sure you want me to move?" France asked, worried. Britain huffed, nodding.

"Need you," he gasped. "Need you _now!_" That was all the permission France needed to start rocking, slowly pulling out and then slowly pushing back in. The rate was almost too slow for him to bare, but he didn't want to hurt his boyfriend, despite the other man's eagerness. He pulled one of Britain's legs over his shoulder so he could push in deeper, searching for that one spot that made Britain-"Oh dear _God!_" Britain cried out.

"I found it," France whispered with a smirk.

"Shut up and do that again!" Britain demanded. Let it never be said that France isn't attentive to his lover's needs. Going a bit faster, he rocked back into the other man's sweet spot, hitting it just hard enough to make Britain cry out, but not enough to make him see white. France took the other leg and and lifted it onto his shoulder so he could go faster, deliberately missing his boyfriend's prostate until every third thrust or so. Normally, France was quite the powertop, and could do this for hours, making Britain come several times while depriving himself of an orgasm until the end. But now was not the time for that. Leaning down, he captured his Britain's lips in a passionate, loving kiss, putting all his feelings into it as best he could. Britain responded by wrapping his arms around France's neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. Their tongues didn't fight for dominance, they danced, tasting each other. With a bit of shifting, France pulled Britain up until he was sitting and the smaller country was riding him, all without ever breaking the kiss. Sometimes, France wished that he was telepathic, so he could let Britain know he loved him without saying a word. But this wasn't one of those times. Right now, in this amazing moment, they could transfer all their love through a heated kiss, or a stroke of a cheek. Despite the fact that sex is usually looked down upon for being a disgusting vulgar act, it wasn't true. It was a way that the two lover's could become even closer then they already were, a way to make every single second count towards making their bond stronger.

"Oh gods, Francis I love you so much," Britain moaned into his lover's mouth. He bounced up and down, shivering every time his sweet spot was hit. France bucked up, grabbing Britain's cock and stroking it.

"Je t'aime aussi, chérie," he panted back. They rocked against each other, in perfect sync as they strived to visit heaven together, until, with a broken cry, Britain threw his head back, pushing down onto France one more time as he came. The sweet walls of Britain clenched almost unbearably tight on France's cock, and he came too, shouting Britain's name. They shuddered, riding out their orgasms before collapsing back in the bed, panting. They laid still for moments until France laughed shrilly. "After that, could you really believe I'd want Italy? He could never be anything compared to you, not with how much I love you. I've been with several countries before you, but I can guarantee you none of them have ever come close to that, that absolute feeling of love and rightness that i have with you," he said. Leaning up on an elbow, he looked at the panting Britain. "I love you. Don't ever doubt that," he said softly. Britain smiled, then sniffed the air.

"Um, I hate to interrupt that amazing declaration of love, but do you smell smoke?" he asked. France sniffed the air, his brow furrowing.

"Actually, I do," he said. Then he smacked his forehead. "The eggs!" he shouted, running out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. By the time Britain had pulled his boxers on and get to the kitchen, trying to ignore the squelching noises from still being full of France's cum, France had already used the fire extinguisher to put out the egg induced fire. He turned the stove off, then sighed, turning to Britain. "There, no more fire," he said grandly. Britain burst into tears, tossing France's boxers at him. Hurriedly pulling them on, France said, "Don't worry, Arthur, it's alright. So a pan is ruined and the cupboards are burned. It's easy to fix." He wrapped his arms around the Brit, rubbing his back soothingly.

"That's not why I'm crying!" Britain sobbed.

France cocked his head. "Then what's wrong?" he asked, exasperated.

"I'm so bad at cooking that I almost burnt the house down and killed us!" the very upset Britain cried. France shook his head, sighing.

"Why don't we go a shower and try to forget all this?" he asked. With that, the two countries headed to the bathroom, leaving the mess in the kitchen to be cleaned up some other time.


End file.
